Buried Under Stone
by Brooklyn's Miracle
Summary: For some people, words can kill. For some people, love can kill. And for others, secrets can kill. For Spot Conlon, all three apply. MORE REVIEWS BEFORE NEXT UPDATE.
1. Secrets

Summary: For some people, words can kill. For some people, love can kill. And for others, secrets can kill. For Spot Conlon, all three apply.

**Buried Under Stone**

**Chapter 1 – Secrets**

Everybody has secrets. Deny it if you want to, but every person has a secret, no matter who they are. Even one secret counts, because everybody has at lease one. That one secret, however big or small it would be to some people, just happens to be the one thing that you wouldn't tell anybody. Not a soul.

Even if your life depended on it, you wouldn't say it, right?

But what if it wasn't your life depending on the revelation of that secret. What if the life belonged to some innocent person who had just been in the wrong place, at the wrong time?

Or what if it wasn't you _or_ them? What if that person just happened to be the person you'd spent your whole life searching for. The person you'd give anything for.

The person you loved.

For some people, words can kill.

For some people, love can kill.

For others, secrets can kill.

And for Spot Conlon, all three apply.


	2. Of Birdies and Buddies

Summary: For some people, words can kill. For some people, love can kill. And for others, secrets can kill. For Spot Conlon, all three apply.

**Buried Under Stone**

**Chapter 2 – Of Birdies and Buddies**

Spot Conlon himself was a secret. Every strand of tousled blonde hair, every stunning smirk that left his lips – it was all a secret.

Some people believe that the dreamy orbs of his eyes – constantly flickering between green and blue – were the door into his heart. And everybody knows that every door has a lock, and every lock has a key.

Likewise, the rusted bronze key that hung on a shoelace around the neck of Brooklyns fearless leader was believed to be the key. The key to the door. The door to his heart.

And therefore, the key to his heart.

Many a girl tried to steal this key, to hold his heart in their hands for all time, and even those who have managed to steal a touch, always fail. For the door slammed closed, and as often happens, the more someone can't have something, the more somebody wants it. And so, girl after girl stepped up to bat, and none of them lasted.

Every girl struck out. 'Why?' you ask? For a simple reason. None of them really loved him. Their thoughts were all aimed towards the glory of having something nobody else could. Spot could have told you that they were going to miss, strike out. Why? Because he was closed, and guarded.

Hell, he would have been right. He always seemed to be right. Never once did he not know about something going on in his Kingdom.

"Me boids been chirpin in me ear." He'd drawl, and the birds had become perched on the third step of the status ladder, just one below second in command.

The 'birds,' as Spot called his spies, seemed to actually do nothing. On the rarae occasion that one of them was found or glimpsed, they were sleeping or just lounging around. Rumors would start, and as though proving ability and existence of the birds' efforts, they'd reappear.

Only one would show up, and give Spot some sort of news. Then the troops would roll off to a fight, the assassins slip out, or the next days newspapers would shout out the findings of a murdered reporter or missing child.

Except for Spot's girls, nobody real new ever came to Brooklyn. There was the odd time that one of the boys from another borough switched over for a while because of a small fight, or maybe even just a temporary shortage of bunks. Other than that, it was always the same old boys, and never, ever somebody new.

There was just no need for it. Spot's closes group of boys, all fifteen, seemed to solve the need. Each and every one of them had been in Brooklyn from the start. Not to mention, Micah was his brother.

Micah Conlon was the exact opposite of his brother, both inside and out. Instead of sandy blonde hair, he was the proud owner of a silky curled mop of dark brown locks, and green eyes so bright as to rival those of his older brother. He stood tall and muscular and constantly drew the attention off the little ones being tormented on the street. They called him Angel, the little ones did, and he remained true to his name, always showing up with uncanny timing. It was largely thanks to River and his men.

Rivan Callahan had eyes that were flighty blue orbs that constantly crossed to blow strands of brown hair from in front of his face. He was small boned and skinny, with long, lean legs and the agility and speed of the river, hence his name. That's why he was the head of the flock. Flock of birds that is. He sent the birds out daily, shuffling sites of watching, and scrambling positions and jobs once a week. All information going to Spot went through him, and if it hadn't, Spot wouldn't have had time to be the womanizer he was. Deek came up with the idea of the filter.

Thomas Michaels was his name, but everybody called him Deek (except for his girl, who called him Tom). Even though he was originally called Deep, a few of the guys had told him he reeked, as his puberty had been extremely hard on him. Eventually, the names had combined, and he seemed to like the way it turned out. His chocolatey brown eyes were constantly squinted over some mathematical equation or problem, and his short brown hair and slightly pointed nose turned him into the hedgehog faced boy that everybody loved. Except Cujo, that is.

Curtis O'Grady was Cujo, a darkr old brute with no compassion whatsoever for anybody other than himself. Yet he stood up for Spot, and set the standards for Brooklyn boys. Soft tendrils of black nearly always hung over his eyes, as though he hated the lively blue color. And truly, he did. Normally, Spot didn't go for fighters who fought regardless of their abilities, but the boy had been to an army reform school, as the son of a lieutenant, and in a place like that, it was nearly impossible not to learn the basis of all army tactics. And so the boy was like a planner, and would plan every attack within minutes of when it was needed.

Those tactics and plans worked as a sort of muse for Alan deLauro. Short and muscular, Gizmo was a gadget genius, great with harnesses and blade sharpening. His blue eyes constantly sparkled as he worked, and blonde hair stuck out in total disarray around his head. He wasn't obsessed, not in the least, but he had very talented and gifted hands, and could work metal like no other. Anything that Cujo needed, Gizmo could build.

Spot called his little group the Ring of Fire, and everybody knew why. Every time a problem arose, one of them would find out, and the news would spread like wildfire through the ring within under a half hour. Within a full hour, they'd be on their way, lead by Brooklyn himself.

And Spot always knew where they were going, he always knew where they needed to be. He knew who he was looking for, but he didn't know when she'd be there, or how he knew.


	3. Once Upon A Time

Summary: For some people, words can kill. For some people, love can kill. And for others, secrets can kill. For Spot Conlon, all three apply.

**Buried Under Stone**

**Chapter 3 – Once Upon a Time**

It all began once upon a time, or basically three weeks ago. Forever seemed to have passed since that night, or at least it felt like so, with everything that had happened. There was more to come, there always was. But this time, nothing was even close to the end.

Most fairy tales seem to start off bright and cheerfully, with brilliant blue skies, and fluffy white clouds dotting the sky. Spot's fairy tale wasn't quite that. The sky that night was black and cloudy, with shadows that seemed to crawl down to the ground in thick columns. Streets and windows would light up with the brilliance of lightning that sizzled in the moist air, and thunder would rumble after it.

She came to the door of the Brooklyn LH that night, dripping from head to toe, with her hair beneath an old cap. Small and fragile, she was lucky that Micah came to the door, or she might have never gotten in. Just as the door swung open, she began to sway.

Spot's younger brother saw the dripping mass that she was and then scooped her up into his arms, and carried her up the stairs, hoping the others would not follow. As he passed the lobby, however, the Ring of Fire looked up from their poker game, and stood, following their youngest up the stairs and into one of the smaller sick rooms.

The door was closed, and without even wasting a second of time, Cujo straightened to his full height, tossing his black hair from his blue orbs angrily. "What da hell do you think your doin' Micah?" The only one to call Angel by his true name other than his brother, Cujo thought Micah suited him better, as Angel was a girly name. In his opinion, of course.

"I'm helping her." Came Angel's simple reply.

"Yea, you're also helping give your brother a reason to kick you out of Brooklyn." Cujo growled. "Girls in the LH is his biggest trigger."

Angel ignored the red faced boy, calmly continuing his task. As he bent over her to pull off her outer layers, his curly brown hair hung in front of his head, and his green eyes turned hard. "River, turn on one of the showers." he ordered.

River faltered. Helping Spot Conlon's brother was normally alright, even rewarded, but when Angel was doing something his brother didn't allow, that was a whole new story. He glanced over at the shivering girl, and finally moved. Angel would have to explain to his brother why there was a _girl_ in the Brooklyn LH.

When the water was running, Angel picked up the girl and carried her into the washroom, standing her up in the warm shower in her underclothes.

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"Spot, I swear it! I'll make sure she leaves as soon as she's fit."

The elder Conlon continued to shake his head, a scowl stretched over his face, his silvery blue eyes cold. "She's a girl, and this is Brooklyn. I won't have it."

Deek pushed open the door and glanced at Angel. "Spot." he began, softly. "I'll help him. And we'll keep her out of your sight alright? Then we'll ask Manhattan to take her later on, if she even wants to stay in New York." His brown eyes quivered along with his hair, nervously hoping that the Brooklyn leader would listen to him.

"So I won't see her?" Spot paused, running his right hand through his hair. His other fist was clenched tightly on the head of his cane, and he pounded it onto the ground when he made his final decision. "Alright, fine. But if I see her more than three times, she's out of here, whether she's fit to go, or not."

Angel smiled widely at Deek as his brother left the room, thanking him.

His grin was not returned however. Deek stepped up to Angel, hoping his actions would not ruin their friendship. "Don't worry about thanking me. You just have to keep her out of his sight."


	4. Out of Sight, Out of Mind

Summary: For some people, words can kill. For some people, love can kill. And for others, secrets can kill. For Spot Conlon, all three apply.

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**Buried Under Stone**

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**Chapter 4 – Out of Sight, Out of Mind**

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When the girl finally woke up the next morning, she was greeted by Gizmo, who was bent over a watch with a screwdriver. His blonde hair hung in tendrils over his forehead, blue eyes sparkling with the challenge of fixing Racetrack's watch, as the little Italian had dropped it in a puddle the night before.

He couldn't have scared her, and didn't, so when she finally spoke, it was him who screamed, surprised by the noise. "Oh my God," he had gasped, hand clutched to his heart. Then he laughed and stood, adjusting the blankets around her chin. "I'll go get Angel."

When Gizmo returned with Angel, they weren't alone. The entire Ring of Fire, with the exception of Spot and Cujo was there, all eager to find out who their mysterious guest was.

Angel sat on the edge of her bed and smiled softly down at her. "My name's Angel. That's Gizmo, Deek, and River." He motioned to each as he said their names. "Welcome to Brooklyn."

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Her name was Riley Curtis, but she preferred if they called her Rocky. When she finally had a real shower, by herself, they finally realized that she actually did look like the girl she was. Riley's hair hung in soft brown waves down to the back of her shoulders, and had green eyes. Angel was first to realize her nose was sprinkled with freckles, and when he did, he decided that would be _his_ nickname for her.

Within two days, she was up and about, with only slight sneezes, and with her recovery came trips outside the walls of the Brooklyn LH. She wasn't patient, to say the least, and Deek caught her on several occasions trying to sneak out of the building for a walk of some sort, and once she even ran into Spot.

"Stay out of my sight," Brooklyn had snapped, his arm wrapped around the waist of his newest whore. Spot knew, in yet another of his mysterious ways, that _that_ would break the heart of many. And soon.

River was the first to take her out into New York, the town she now resided in. He took her to Sheepshead races in the early afternoon of one of the training days, and when the track was clear, they raced, Rocky tripping and stumbling as she failed miserably at keeping up with the bird. Tibby's was their next stop, where River introduced Rocky to all the Manhattan girls and boys. They got along fine would be an understatement, as the group laughed and talked until the owner ushered the group from the cafe long after dark.

The next day, Rocky was pulled by Gizmo to a small shop on the outskirts of Brooklyn. There, they sat for hours, molding stuff from clay and metal; pots, rings, and Gizmo entwined several metal strips to make a silvery looking bracelet for her. As evening faded away, the Brooklyn docks were their next stop, until of course they spotted Brooklyn himself perched on a pile of crates. As they turned away, they were unaware that his icy eyes burned holes into their backs.

Cujo decided against taking her out to show her the ropes, after all, "She'd learn better on her own," as he said. Why waist time with a stupid girl, especially if she was going to leave soon enough anyways. Something about that _girl_ made him uneasy, and he couldn't wait until she left.

When Deek's turn came around to take Rocky on a 'field trip', he was fully at a loss. So they sat on the bridge, and talked, until she decided she wanted to meet his girlfriend. Tessa was -- to say the least -- thrilled. She kept turning to Deek and saying, "Oh, Tom, I'm glad you're friends!" The trio hopped a carriage to a nearby bookshop, and spent the entire day learning about streets and alleys in their city.

Sunday was Angel's turn, and he was looking forward to actually knowing the girl all the others had become acquainted with. The end of the day was his curse, as Micah knew he had to tell her that she would be leaving, like it or not. "Just across the bridge." He'd say, and had practiced over and over for the cursed speech. It never came.

That morning, as Rocky scrambled down the stairs into the lobby to meet him, there came a shout from the foyer. Spot was standing there with a pleased look on his face. "Goodbye doll. I've seen you three times, so it's time to go."

Rocky's face spoke better than any words, the shock and confusion that flashed in her eyes was enough to convince even _Spot_ that she had no idea what was going on.

Brooklyn roughly took her wrist, and led her to the front door. "I never wanted you here, and Angel was lucky that I let you stay. I told him to keep you out of my sight, but I saw you, three times. Now you go to Manhattan, whether you like it or not." Spot smiled weakly, eyes laughing. "I'm _really_ surprised Angel didn't tell you that."

Whereas most girls Spot knew would have probably begun to cry, Rocky was not most girls. Her fists became clenched hard at her sides, and without warning, Brooklyn's king was lying on the ground, his hand over his jaw, as he shouted, "Out!"

Rocky turned, hands firmly on her hips, and started out the front door. Before she had left the porch, she was running, legs pounding on the cobblestone pavement, on the way to Manhattan.

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Spot waited just long enough that she'd be out of site before calling for his younger sibling. "Angel!" he shouted, and within seconds, the teen was before him.

"Damnit Spot," he gasped, helping Brooklyn back to his feet. "What da hell happened?"

"I caught your little friend for the third time this week, and told her her chances were up. Your Rocky dame was sure upset when I told her that you knew the whole time. Her face got all read, and she just ran off. Well, not before she _hit_ me!"

Angel ran a hand through his curly brown hair, green eyes darting around nervously. "Spot, she don't know about street predators! She ain't never been alone."

"She deserves whatever comes to her." Brooklyn drawled, and strutted through the door and down the docks.

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Rocky turned yet another corner, her arms clasped around herself. Somewhere near Tibby's she had taken a wrong turn, and had wound up here, somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Turning another corner, she stumbled over a pebble on the ground, and sighed, "City of opportunity my ass."

Beating down from overhead, the midday sun pounded on her back, sending little trickles of sweat along the back of her neck. She jumped, as a voice came from directly behind her, and spun around.

"Excuse me, Miss," the voice had called, and it belonged to a young man, who looked just barely eighteen. Frizzy red hair stuck out at every imaginable odd angle on the man's head, and his eyes were dark. Despite his unruly appearance, his smile was warm, and as he continued talking, she almost would have done anything. "You seem lost. Could I help you in any way?"

Rocky nearly answered, "Yes," but caught herself. What came out instead was, "No thank you, I don't even know you."

He laughed radiantly, and extended his hand to her. "My name is Patrick, but my friends call me Charm. Now, if you'll tell me your name, I think then we know eachother."

She laughed and took his hand, shaking it quickly, before abruptly dropping her hand to her side. "My name's Riley," she smiled. "I was supposed to go to Manhattan."

He extended his arm to her, smiling still, and when Rocky took it, Charm started down the street. They weaved in and out through a labrynth of streets and alleys, and just before turning onto a street near Tibby's, Charm turned into an alley.

Halfway down, he pinned her against a wall, holding a knife to the tender flesh beneath her chin. "Alright doll," he spat, "Where's Thomas?"

"Who?" she gasped.

"Thomas Michaels, you idiot. The guy I saw you walking around with a few days ago." At the look of bemusement on her face, he rolled his eyes and pressed harder. "Deek?"

Rocky's eyes widened in familiarity, and she gasped, wriggling.

Then out of nowhere, a fist came down on the back of Charm's head, and he lay sprawled on the ground, quivering.

Angel's curly hair hung down around his ears, sweat glistening on his brow as he smiled at her and approached the writhing mass of human flesh on the ground. "So Charm," he began. "What do you think you're doin, picking on one of Jack's newsies."

Stuttering, Charm mumbled quietly, but with a swift kick to the side on Angel's part, he spoke up, wincing. "G-gettin back a g-gamblin debt from one of C-conlon's newsies."

Angel shook his head, clucking his tongue disapprovingly. "You that ain't very smart Charm, especially when you're picking on somebody who doesn't even really know the person you're looking for." Angel sighed, and crouched next to Charm. "Besides, you know that Spot is really short tempered. You touch anybody from Brooklyn or Manhattan _every_ again, and I'll see to it that you don't live to say sorry. Alright?"

Charm looked up, dark eyes flashing in the darkness, and nodded silently.

"That's good." Angel smiled, and patted Charm's head, laughing when he flinched. Then he stood, grabbed Rocky's wrist, and pulled her out of the alley.

"Thank you," she whispered, and pulled her hand from his.

Angel laughed, suddenly his normal sunny self. "Don't worry about it Freckles." he tousled her hair, and then paused. "Umm, Rocky? You know how today was my day to show you around town, well Spot sorta kicked you out, and I was wondering, if I could maybe --" he broke off, biting his lip. "Take you out for _real_ sometime."

Rocky smiled and laughed, nodding brightly and taking his hand. Then she paused and whispered, "But can we – well, not rush it?"

He laughed and nodded, smiling. "Of course."

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A/N – Much thanks to all the reviewers. Every few chapters I'll name them all, or list them if I get around to it, but please do know that I appreciate any constructive criticism, or support that I can get. Much love.


	5. Midnight Meeting

Summary: For some people, words can kill. For some people, love can kill. And for others, secrets can kill. For Spot Conlon, all three apply.

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**Buried Under Stone**

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**Chapter 5 – Midnight Meeting**

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Angel's curly brown hair hung in wet corkscrew curls in front of his eyes as he watched his feet, lowering them slowly onto the ledge below the window. The best exit from the bunk room in the boy's lodging house just happened to be nearly three meters from the street, with the fire-escape long since fallen away. However, there was a greatly useful drainpipe that sufficed as a hold, or a way to slide down.

At this point, that's what Micah Conlon's strong, weathered hands were clasping tightly to. When he landed firmly on the ground, he wiped the dirt and grime off of his hands onto his pants, and walked down the cobblestone street, one leather encased foot in front of the other..

The sun had not yet begun it's ascent, and even the horizon was still black as midnight, but Angel's emerald eyes were bright enough to light up the city. If it were possibly, they seemed to glow more so as he climbed the rickety steps of the Manhattan lodging house.

Kloppman, already used to his daily visits after two weeks, opened the door before he even knocked, and the young romantic stepped inside. He scaled the stairs and slunk quietly into the girls bunk room, kneeling on the floor next to Rocky's bed.

There, he blew softly on her ear, whispered her name, and kiss her cheek. Rocky stirred, green eyes opening slowly, and then smiled.

Life flickered immediately to them, despite the fact that they were plagued with evidence of her recent sleep. Used to the routine, she sat up and pulled on her sweater, following him down the stairs and out the door.

It couldn't be called early, not for newsies, as by the time they left the Manhattan shelter, the suns glow was just beginning to lighten the sky on the horizon to a royal blue.

Together they walked, hand in hand towards Tibby's, waving to the familiar people as they passed them. There was the apple vendor and his wife, setting out the freshest on his cart, and the bookshop owner, sweeping the dirt and leaves off of his front step.

Above the door, the bell chimed loudly, and the regular man looked up from behind the counter and nodded at them. Tibby's wasn't usually open at this time, but Angel and Rocky's continuing interest in the small diner gave them reason enough to open the door two hours early each morning.

In the far corner, away from the windows, and away from the kitchen, they sat once again, hands clasped over the table. Then Angel began to talk, and everything seemed perfectly normal.

"It's been two weeks," he began,and Rocky laughed softly. "Spot deserves to know."

"Yes, but he won't like it, and he'll do anything possible to stop it."

"He won't be able to."

Rocky raised a thin eyebrow, smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Micah Conlon," she drawled.

He echoed her long drawn out way of saying his name, widening his eyes and puckering his lips to tease her. "Freckles."

She laughed again and shook her head. "He's your brother, your older brother! And he's the ruler of Brooklyn! Not to mention, he is the Spot Conlon. Whatever Spot Conlon wants, Spot Conlon gets."

Angel frowned and shook his head, suddenly quite serious. "He didn't get to stay an only child, he didn't get to grow up like a normal kid." Then the brunette smiled, lightening the tone with a sarcastic remark, "And he didn't get a brother shorter than him."

Rocky frowned playfully and swatted him. "He doesn't like me, Angel, and you know it."

"Of course not," Angel sighed, rolling his eyes. "He doesn't like that you got to stay in Brooklyn even though he didn't want you to. He doesn't like that his 'Ring of Fire' went against him to help a girl. Just a _girl_."

"Just a girl, eh? Any other normal every-day girl?"

He laughed and leaned back, crossing his arms behind his neck. "Yup. Just any other normal every-day girl."

"Hey!" Rocky retorted. She set her chin defiantly and stood, striding purposefully out the diner door.

He waited as though pondering whether to follow or not, then jumped up racing after her. "Freckles --" Angel called.

Rocky spun around, cheeks flushed with heat. "Don't you 'Freckles' me." She began, and stood up straight and tall.

"Why not?" he asked, inching towards her bit by bit, and then grabbing her wrists when he was centimeters away from her face.

"What --?" she began, green eyes flickering.

But Angel cut her off, pressing his lips against her cheeks in a soft kiss. He pulled slowly away, and let his mouth linger close to the soft skin.

Rocky then smiled, and she whispered, "Fine, we won't tell him."

A slow grin grew across the length of his face, and then he lowered his face down once more, and pecked her on the nose.

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Silky rays of moonlight swam around the large Brooklyn bunk room, infiltrating every corner and bathing it in milky white rays. In the center of the room, on a creaky wooden bunk, a single boy slept peacefully, face calm.

His eyebrow were furrowing slowly, and the corners of his mouth turning down into a frown.

It didn't take long for the peaceful aura of the room to turn into one of fear, as the youth began to thrash, sending the thin blanket covering him into a pile on the floor.

His face was contorted in pain, and several times he groaned deeply. The frame of the bunk shook with his tossing and turning, scraping against the floor.

Without warning, he sat up bolt upright in bed, forehead moist with sweat, and his eyes wide.

He made no sound, not a scream, gasp or choke for breath, until he whispered a single sentence.

"I can't let that happen."

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In the dark of the Brooklyn docks, two solemn figures stood bathed in moonlight, the shorter of whom stood against a towering pile of crates. A blustery wind carried tiny snatches of their conversation through the heavy air, at the same time making the river's waters rough and turning.

The taller of the pair twirled a dagger casually between his fingers, reflecting light off the sleek metal. His lips parted, and he licked them before speaking, "Lemme see if I hear you correctly."

Swaggering a step or two down the dock, he began to mumble in a low voice. "So this girl is going to hurt this kid?"

"My brother."

"Your brother."

There was a nod from the shorter. "She's associated with Black, the leader of Queens. I can't tell you who told me."

"I never asked."

"Sorry."

On the end of the dock, the taller of the two looked up, the dark light glinting fiendishly off of his eyes. "So you want me to deal with this ' association'?"

At the nod of the small, the taller continued casually, "So what's in it for me."

There was a slight hesitation from the scrawny youth, and then a jingle of coins as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small brown drawstring bag. "This, and more when you've finished."

After a curt nod from the elder of the two, the bag was snatched. Without even stopping to count the coins, he left, walking quickly away. He paused however, and turned, striding back before the more petite. "No, when I've done my part, you do me a favor."

The other paused thoughtfully, rubbing their chin in darkness. "What sort of favor, might I ask."

"You'll deal with one of my problems." Without pausing, -the broad shouldered lad confidently continued away, and faded into the darkness that covered Brooklyn.

All that remained was the shorter boy, huddled in the shadow of a pile of crates. However, he was not hidden for long, and took a slight half step out of the shadows and into the filtered rays of light. First came out layered blond hair, and then a slightly pointed nose, and finally, a pair of shimmering, silver and blue eyes.

Spot Conlon softly rubbed his nose and turned, swaggering up the stairs in the Brooklyn lodging house to his own bunk, and climbing in.

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A/N – Much thanks to all the reviewers. Every few chapters I'll name them all, or list them if I get around to it, but please do know that I appreciate any constructive criticism, or support that I can get. Much love.


	6. When Lions Roar

Summary: For some people, words can kill. For some people, love can kill. And for others, secrets can kill. For Spot Conlon, all three apply.

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**Buried Under Stone**

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**Chapter 6 – When the Lions Roar**

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There is an idea. An idea about why people do the terrible things that they do. For the same reasons that kids push each other around the schoolyard seems to condemn us all. If you're the one doing the pushing, you're not going to get pushed. If you're the monster, then nothing will be waiting in the shadows to jump out at you. It's pretty simple really. People do the terrible things they do because they're scared.

Chase Fordon was no different from any other man or woman. He stole from vendors and tricked the coppers, and rarely even stopped to help an elderly woman cross the street. It just wasn't something Chase had ever done, nor something he would ever do.

You see, Chase was a hunter. He did whatever he pleased, whenever he pleased. If it fit him to hop a train to Chicago or Pittsburgh for a day, he'd do so. You could say he was wild, and that was what got him where he was, as it's true.

But he always came back home in the end.

In a game of Pirates and Pilgrims, back in London, his sister and he had actually climbed up onto a boat. They weren't supposed to, and had never done so, until then. Of course, as luck would have it, the ship set sail for New York, and upon discovery of the two stowaways, they were in a boiling pot.

He made it to their destination, but it was more than he could say for his sister. Sometimes people come to a moment in their lives when they think they've found that one last chance to be somebody else. And so they go for it. Chase went for it.

He found a pistol in a trash bin near the harbor, and like a bullet, the idea pierced him. With just a little practice, he could be a hit man. Chase Fordon could pretend that all his victims were his enemies, and in a way, kill the stress they placed on him.

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Angel Conlon sat in one of the booths of Tibby's, his fingers tapping out a soft beat on the table, as he watched people drift passed the little diner. His curly hair hung in loose tresses around his face, n shadowing his green eyes in a curtain of darkness.

Without warning, or even a slight sound, and arm wrapped itself over his shoulder, and he turned to see who the owner was, fully expecting Rocky. Who else could it have been? It was she who had asked him to meet her at Tibby's after selling. He was there ahead of time, as usual, but he knew she was always on time, so it couldn't be her, not half hour early.

Angel was right. He stared into a pair of soft brown eyes, with straight red hair donning the head of the girl next to him, her nose upturned as she smiled. "Hey darling." she whispered huskily.

"Um, hi?" he edged away from her, feeling trapped between the girl and the wall.

"You want to have a good time tonight?" she whispered, first sitting down on the booth next to him, and slowly sliding closer to him. A soft smirk on her face, he knew immediately of her -- profession.

"I --" he broke off when a strangled yelp came from behind the girl. The prostitute's face was so close to his, that he had to lean over the table in order to see who'd gave the cry.

It was Rocky, her brown hair falling out of a braid, her shadowy eyes clouded with confusion, and the beginnings of betrayal. "What – what is this?" she shrieked, and other diners turned to look over at the source of the commotion.

"Rocky --" he began, and pushed the other girl away from him. "Let me explain."

"Explain what?!" she asked, looking at the girl in disgust. "Who the hell this is?"

The whore seemed not to notice the dirty look, and smiled cockily. "I'm Cheeks, sweetheart."

Rocky ignored the comment, and raised her eyebrows at Angel. "Well, Angel?"

Cheeks moved in front of Angel, her hand on his leg, and slowly moving up his thigh. He inhaled sharply, unable to speak. The pressure on his groin was unbearably uncomfortable, and squirming did nothing to move the girls hand, as Cheeks kept it firmly in place while she spoke to his girl. "Don't worry about it hunny. We were just having a little bit of fun until you got here. No big deal, you know every boy in town is doing it. They are boys after all. They have needs."

Rocky's face looked stricken."You were – having fun? Before meeting me – and where we were supposed to meet? Do you have anything to say for yourself Angel..?"

Cheeks squeezed his leg once again, grinding her rear end up against his thigh, and he gasped, face pale.

"So, you cheated on me. Or were planning on it."

"No!" he mentally smacked himself. Why on earth did he not just push the stupid whore away, and get out of the position he was in. Angel stood, climbing over the girl in an effort to calm Rocky before she broke something, or burst into tears. But he was too late. A single silver tear streamed down one cheek, and as he raised a hand to comfort her, she rushed out of the restaurant.

Following her as fast as his shaky legs would carry him, he left the restaurant, followed closely by Cheeks, and the restaurant owner, who's hand was out in wait for payment of Angel's drink. He wouldn't have stopped, had Cheeks not grabbed his hand and pulled him close, allowing the restaurant owner to stand in front of him until he dropped a quarter in the hand.

The farther she ran from the diner, the more the crowds hid her, and he watched her disappear, unable to move from the girl anchoring him. Angel's face grew hot, and he realized he could nearly feel the girl's touch burning him. Staring at the sky, he shouted angrily, and desperately. "Rocky!"

Forcefully, he pried the girl off of him, glaring at her and storming away in the same general direction of Rocky's flight.

88

Chase walked casually along the edge of the cobblestone street, his revolver tucked safely into his pocket. About half way down the next block, stood a little diner called Tibby's, and as if on cue, his stomach gave a low growl.

With a chuckle, Chase kept going, his eyes set on his destination, and just as he neared it, a girl ran out. It wasn't that he recognized her, because he didn't, but the boy who exited a moment later seemed somewhat familiar.

'Curly brown hair, green eyes,' he thought and then nodded to himself. It was Brooklyn's brother, that Angel kid. Following Angel was a short red head with a slightly pointed nose, and cute cheeks. She clung to him, forcing him to stop walking, and he shouted "Rocky!" at the sky, then looked at the girl clinging to him. Angel stormed off, leaving the red head alone on the corner.

Chase paused. Could this girl be the one he was sent to kill? She'd certainly been the only one around when Angel screamed the Rocky girl's name. There was only one way to find out. So he followed her.

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Chase sat back against the wall near his barstool, and watched the girl across the room carefully through his black bangs. He had been studying her for most of the night. Watching her between drinks, and constantly glancing over at her, even in the midst of small conversations with the other bar hoppers.

He swallowed the last bit of his whiskey and let the glass clink loudly down on the bar top. "Another, and whatever she's been drinking. Send it over." He ordered without turning his head to even face the bartender.

It didn't take long. Moments later, Chase watched the waitress deliver the drink, and then point over towards him. He nodded in response to her gaze, smiling.

The redhead from earlier, Rocky, he assumed, licked her lips and took a small sip of the drink he'd sent over. She was focusing all her attention on Chase, but it wasn't a surprise. It was her job after all, and he had bought her a drink.

Ever so slowly, she made her way over through the crowd. She had perfected doing everything in a softer, more sensual state; the way she drank, ate, spoke, and even simple gestures were all done with a hint of sensuality.

It was her job to make men's mind wonder, to make them crave her with all of their being. After all it was how she got paid, and a paying is a living.

"Thanks." She murmured, speaking softly. She looked over Chase with her eyes, examining every inch of him as if he were her prey, and in a manner of speaking, he was.

'No ring,' she noted. That was always a good sign. At least now her conscience could rest easily in knowing she wasn't ruining a marriage.

"So what's your name?" He asked, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

"Cheeks."She replied running her tongue along the outside of the smooth glass. "You have a name?"

He paused, thinking deeply about her answer. Cheeks, she had said. Why hadn't she responded with Rocky, after all, Angel had said her name. There was a simple explanation for that. Many of the streetwalkers had several names. Rocky must be just another one. Therefore, he accepted it with a grin.

He laughed. "Chase, my name is Chase."

"Well what brings you to a place like this, Chase?" She sat down on the barstool next to him, crossing her legs to the point that the skirt raised slowly higher.

"A good time." He swallowed the last bit of whiskey from the bottom of his glass, and set it on the table. "You know where I could find one?"

She nodded. "Well you've definitely come to the right place." She stood up and took his hand. "Follow me," she walked towards the dark hallway in the back leaving her drink on the table.

He followed her slowly, brown eyes skimming the room and looking around at the different faces. No one seemed to notice them.

Every chair down the hall was occupied by some other couple, making out – or more. A few doors they passed in the dark, and dim signs on the doors read 'Busy' or 'Empty', although one had to squint to read the faded print.

It wasn't a very well lit establishment and by looking around he could tell this bar wasn't known for it's fine attendees. Drunk men swooned, their fingers exploring, and single men practiced their charm.

Cheeks opened a door, bit by bit, and stepped in, pulling Chase in behind her. Quietly

she shut the door and felt for the lock with her fingers, securing it with a click.

She pulled her shirt off over her head and tossed it to the ground, climbing on top of Chase, and straddling him on the bed. He smirked and pressed his lips fiercely against hers, pushing his tongue inside her mouth lustfully.

She wrapped her arms around his neck pulling him close against her, grinding her hips against him. Chase flipped her over on her back and crawled on top of her, throwing his pants to the floor.

When he had finally finished using her for her "talents" he sat up slowly and pulled his clothes on.

Too bad she had to die.

He grabbed the gun from his trousers pockets, pecked one of Cheeks' cheeks, and placed a pillow over her head before she could fight back.

"Thanks for the ride." He laughed, placing the gun in the middle of the pillow, cocking it and pulling the trigger.

There wasn't any loud startling sound or even a blood-curdling scream to distract the other guests. So he sat silently on the edge of the bed, and waited silently.

It was a ritual of sorts, sitting after a kill. He'd wait for any type of guilt or remorse to sink in, and if it did, he'd take time off of work. By now though, he hardly ever felt feelings for his victims. Especially if he didn't know them well enough to be emotionally attached.

For this girl, Cheeks, he didn't know her, so he sat there pointlessly. Yet as he remained still, thoughts were racing through his head. Perhaps he had killed the wrong girl. After all, she had ceased completely to name herself as the infamous Rocky. There'd be no pay if he'd killed the wrong person.

Now'd be the best time to go to Spot, then, if he had yet to learn if the dead girl was the right one.

He stood up and walked towards the door tossing the money on the bed next to the lifeless body of the girl who claimed to be Rocky.

"Keep the change."

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A/N – Much thanks to all the reviewers. Every few chapters I'll name them all, or list them if I get around to it, but please do know that I appreciate any constructive criticism, or support that I can get. Much love.


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